


The Last Time

by Vernon (Fielding)



Category: Depeche Mode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 19:33:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11133279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Vernon
Summary: Five times Martin said goodbye. Originally posted to LJ in 2010.





	The Last Time

Andy was furious – angrier than Martin had ever seen him, like he wanted to leap across the dingy table and wrap his hands right around Vince’s throat and shake the breath out of him. Like he wanted to shake him hard enough to take back the words, make it so they never existed. He kept squeezing his hands into fists on the table. Dave, meanwhile, looked confused, like he had no idea what to make of things, and he maybe looked a little delighted at the prospect of violence. But he seemed to be waiting for someone else to say something, to take the lead, or maybe tell him things were going to be all right.

“You’re sure, mate?” Martin said. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling a sick weight in his stomach.

Vince nodded, and he eyed Andy warily, and he said, “Yeah, I’ve thought long and hard about this.”

“Oh, so you’ve been thinking about it a long time, then,” Andy said. “Planning your escape, were you? Figured you’d stick around long enough for us to get a bit of fame, and then you’d piss off and do your own thing.”

“Andy, c’mon, it wasn’t like that and you know it.” Vince sighed and tugged at his hair. “Look, I’m sorry, boys. You know I don’t want to leave you in the lurch. If you want me to stick around a few more months, help out with some of the writing-”

“We don’t need your fucking pity songs,” Andy spat, and he stood up at the table and jabbed a finger at Vince. “And we don’t need you.”

Vince stood up too, so fast that his chair skidded out from under him and fell back onto the floor. For a long moment they stood there, Vince glaring up into Andy’s face, Andy breathing hard and fisting his hands at his side. Dave sat there right between them, looking from one to the other like this was all good entertainment.

“Boys-” Martin said, but Vince held up a hand.

“It’s all right. I’ve got to go. Good luck to you and all that.” The last part he directed at Martin. Vince dug in the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of bills – more than enough to cover his own pint – and dropped them on the table.

He left without another word, and Martin convinced Andy to stay, and it was a good thing Vince had dumped them at a bar because they were all thoroughly drunk within the hour, and talking about Vince as though it’d been their idea, their plan all along to kick him out. And finally, as though he’d never been there at all.

The next afternoon Vince stopped by Martin’s house to pick up the last of his gear. After they’d loaded it all into Vince’s little car, they sat smoking on the grass in front, for a long time just staring quietly up at the sky, which was remarkably clear and bright for mid-winter in Basildon. Martin closed his eyes and thought how nice the sun felt on his face. How people always talked about the rain and wind and dark thunderstorms as forbearers of change, but sometimes change was just a pleasant afternoon, sunlight and blue skies filling up the darkest places in his mind and in his heart, at least for the moment.

“I meant it, what I said last night,” Vince said. He bumped Martin’s knee with his own. “I don’t have to leave right away. I can do the tour with the band, maybe even give you a few more songs for the next album.”

Martin took a drag off his cigarette. It was honestly tempting. They probably wouldn’t have too much trouble finding some bloke who could bash out their songs on a keyboard for the tour, but it was the next album Mart was worried about. He had a few songs of his own – more than a few, actually – but he’d never written anything under pressure of a deadline. He’d never been needed. And unless they found a new fourth member who knew what he was doing in the studio, who really understood what it was to write and create music, Martin would be on his own there too. It was all going to fall on him.

He felt suddenly very small, and very young, and very tired. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun again.

“No, I think we’ll be all right,” Martin said, the words coming out on their own, surprising him. He opened his eyes and glanced at Vince.

Vince raised an eyebrow at him, but he grinned. “Yeah. You will.” He stood up then, and swept a hand over his arse to brush away any stray bits of grass. “Well, I reckon I should be going.”

Martin stared up at him, squinting until Vince shifted and his head blocked the sun, which formed a bright, quivering halo around his dark face.

“See you later?” Vince said.

“Yeah,” Martin said, “see you.”

 

+++

 

“Bye, luv,” Martin said.

He kissed her once on the lips before pulling her into a hug, one hand stroking through her long, straight hair, the fingers of the other trailing over her back, catching on the strap of her bra. He plucked at it a little, just to feel her laugh against his chest.

Martin pulled back and draped an arm over her shoulders. They’d be leaving in a few minutes, off to America again, and he was looking forward to getting on the plane finally, for the last leg of the tour. Only Alan stood alone – he always said he liked to say his goodbyes in private, so he’d left Jeri and her son behind that morning at the flat they shared. Dave was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, bouncing Jack on his lap while Jo hovered over them both, a soft, nervous smile on her face. Andy was on the opposite end of the gate area, holding Grainne, whose shoulders were shaking badly. She was probably crying.

“C’mon, lads, time to go,” Dan said, and he waved them all toward the door that would take them straight out onto the tarmac. They’d booked a private plane all the way to New York, and then on to California. It was these little things – or rather big things, like private planes – that made Martin want to shake himself awake sometimes.

Martin kissed Adele on the top of her head and hugged her close one more time, and then he pulled away with a wave, and he followed Dan and Alan outside, Dave and Andy close behind.

Andy took a window seat and Martin dropped next to him, and he bumped Andy’s shoulder with his own. “Cheer up. We’ll see them in two months. Less than that, even.”

Andy just sighed dramatically and said, “I know, I just hate it when she cries. Why does she cry every time?” Martin shrugged, although he thought he probably knew why, and Andy turned to stare out the window at the gloomy London sky.

Across the aisle, Alan and Dave already had cocktails – something clear and cold, with lime wedges split on the rim, probably gin and tonics. The stewardess, pretty and American with long blond hair pulled up into a high ponytail, was perched on the arm of Alan’s seat, and she laughed when he whispered something into her ear.

“Go on, those two look thirsty,” Alan said, and the stewardess laughed again, but she disappeared to the front galley and returned a few minutes later with drinks for Martin and Andy.

“Courtesy of the gentleman in 2B,” she said with a giggle, nodding toward Alan, and she left them alone to see to the back of the plane. Martin heard Daryl laughing a minute later, and he figured she was making more friends.

They’d toured plenty already, and even this – a private plane, free cocktails and pretty stewardesses – wasn’t entirely new. And still, as he sat on the plane and held his cocktail, condensation pooling at his fingertips, he felt like this had to be some kind of strange, vivid dream. Part of him wanted time to stop, right here and now, so he could take a deep breath and prepare himself, and just sit and appreciate the moment. But a larger, greedier part of him wanted to race ahead to see what came next, like flipping to the end of a good book, or skipping through the songs on a new album. They’d been preparing for this tour for years now, in so many ways, and yet it still felt like everything was happening too fast.

The film crew would meet them in Pasadena, and in less than two months they’d play the gig of a lifetime, to 50,000 fans, maybe more. Martin wasn’t nervous, not now, not yet. He knew that time would come, but for now he just wanted to take it all in. Glancing around the cabin, he thought Alan probably felt the same, and Dave, although of course most of the pressure fell on him, and Dave had been a bundle of anxious energy and nerves for weeks now. Andy, though, was scared a lot of the time, and worried, and Martin wished desperately that he could just let go and live a little.

It seemed so recent that they’d all been young and poor and eager to please, and now – some days, most days, Martin didn’t know quite what they were. Some days it felt like he was losing himself. But Martin felt lucky to have this band – this tight, odd little family – to stand with him, to share everything and keep him from feeling so alone.

“Well, let’s have a toast then,” Alan said, looking around at all of them.

Martin pulled Andy away from the window and gestured with his own drink into the air. Andy sighed again, but he lifted his glass.

“To the wives and children,” Dave said, his eyes crinkling with a wide smile.

“To sex and drugs and all that,” Alan said with a laugh.

They all looked at Andy, who said, “To Grainne.”

Martin paused and looked into his drink, and then held his glass out in front of him. “To us.”

They all leaned in and clumsily clinked their glasses together, and as the plane pulled away from the terminal, no one looked back, not even Andy.

 

+++

 

It was only later, after he’d seen the press statement, that Mart felt truly angry. Furious even. Disgusted and betrayed.

But when Alan walked into Dan’s office – when he sat down in one of the straight-back leather chairs, and crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knees, and finally told them he was leaving – Martin felt mostly numb.

Andy was angry immediately, although Martin always thought it wasn’t really about Alan. Not entirely. It was no big secret that they all thought the band might be done for, and if Alan had just been the first to make a definitive move – to say it out loud – Mart couldn’t really blame him, and he also couldn’t blame Andy for his anger. Andy sat back on Dan’s expensive couch and lit up a cigarette, his forehead heavy and creased, sweat breaking out across his upper lip. Martin’s first thought was that this was nothing like Vince leaving. This was the end. This was it.

Except he didn’t believe that, not really. Because he had a whole stack of songs already written, and he knew without hesitation that they could carry on without Alan. So when Andy said, “Well, happy fucking birthday to you,” Mart actually felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, and he ducked his head so neither of them would see him smile.

Andy left then, “to get some air,” and he walked out without so much as a nod at Alan. He said, “I’ll call you later, Mart,” and then he was gone. When the door slammed behind him Martin turned back, and he caught the smallest of smirks on Alan’s face – that smile of his that always made him look like he was keeping secrets, like he knew things you didn’t even want to hear. Then Alan shook his head and ran a hand over his hair, grown long again over the past year.

“So you’re really done, then?” Martin said. It felt like he should say more – feel more – but all he felt was tired, of both body and mind. It occurred to him that he should ask Alan what he’d do now, although Martin thought he knew the answer, and he found he didn’t care much anyway.

They’d always had their differences, and they’d never been best mates – maybe not even friends at all, really. He knew that wasn’t quite fair. They had been friends, for years and years when they were young. But things had changed, and it had been clear for some time that they weren’t quite connecting – never had, and never would. There were certain people, Martin had long ago figured out, who just weren’t yours to keep. Sometimes Martin called it anti-chemistry, when he’d been drinking with Andy and was feeling clumsy with his words. But there was truth to that, and it wasn’t sad that he and Alan had never quite fit. They’d still done something remarkable, something marvelous together – with Dave and Andy too, but a lot of times, with just the two of them.

Alan just nodded thoughtfully at him, and then he pushed up from his chair. “I reckon I should check in with Dan, sign some papers and what not.”

“Have you talked to Dave?”

Alan laughed, and there was nothing pleasant about it. “Haven’t been able to track him down. I’ll send him a fax.”

Martin couldn’t stop his own bitter laughter this time. It’d become a long, mean joke between them, although there was some sad truth to it. There had been weeks when none of them had heard from Dave, or been able to find him.

“Well, take care then,” Martin said.

Alan stood over him, his head cocked to one side. He pushed the hair out of his face and held a hand out to Martin, and Martin shook it. Alan’s hand was dry and warm, the skin scratched and callused on his fingers and the edge of his palm. It felt strange. Martin couldn’t remember the last time they’d touched at all.

“Same to you,” Alan said.

Later, hours later when the news had gotten around, Martin sat over a glass of whiskey, and when Fletch said he wished he’d punched Alan in the face, Martin quietly agreed.

 

+++

 

Sending Dave packing should’ve been the most difficult thing in the world, but in the end, it was easy. If Dave couldn’t sing, if he couldn’t do his bloody job, if he couldn’t fucking stop, then that meant Martin was on his own now. God love Andy, but Martin had never felt lonelier than those days at Electric Lady, watching Dave fall apart – again, and what felt like once and for all.

“We’ve got nothing,” Martin said, and he tugged off his headphones and tossed them on the mixing board. “He’s bloody useless.”

Tim sighed and shoved his own headphones off one ear, and he tucked his chin into his hand, looking as weary as Martin felt. Through the window in the control room they could see Dave singing still, or something that looked like singing. He looked about as rough as Martin had ever seen him – like a tree uprooted by wind and rain, all thin dead branches, no color, no life left anywhere on his body. Even his tattoos seemed somehow muted, and his hair, longer now and perpetually unkempt, hung over his face and his eyes. It was almost a blessing, really, that they couldn’t see his eyes. Martin didn’t want to know what he’d find in them.

He thought, not for the first time, that this might really be it. They couldn’t go on without Dave. Andy would say otherwise, and maybe Andy really believed that, but Andy had both more and less to lose, and Martin didn’t think he could really see the situation for what it was. He was still so angry, and fragile in a way Martin didn’t really know what to do with. Even now, Martin could hear the snick of his lighter – two, three times – and Martin didn’t have to look behind him to know that Andy’s hands were shaking as he tried to get the flame to catch and light his cigarette.

Martin was tempted to send him home. Hell, Martin was tempted to go home himself. There was a not insignificant voice in his head that kept telling him that maybe it was really time to call it in. They’d already been successful beyond anything any of them had ever expected, after all. They had nothing left to prove.

“What do you think? Give it another go?” Tim said, slipping his headphones around his neck. Martin looked up – he hadn’t even realized Dave had stopped singing.

Dave was standing in there, swaying a little, both hands clasped over the microphone like it was the only thing holding him up. Martin couldn’t see his face at all through his hair.

“No,” Martin said. “We’re done here.”

Tim gave him a hard, searching look, but he didn’t say anything, and after a moment he just nodded a little. He set his headphones on the table and pushed back his chair and said, “I’m going for a smoke.”

He was a smart man, Tim.

Dave finally glanced into the control room, his eyes very black, and Martin waved him in. He was scratching the inside of his arm as he walked back in, and Martin closed his eyes, a sudden rush of fury washing over him like a wave, sinking him and filling him up all at once. The rage was unfamiliar, although he knew it’d been building, probably for months, maybe years. And it wasn’t unwelcome. He felt oddly buoyed by it.

They’d been so close, for so long, him and Dave. Martin denied it out loud, and sometimes even to himself, but he knew that Dave had slipped into that secret, dark place inside him that made music. He didn’t write for Dave, but sometimes he felt like he wrote with Dave, like a part of Dave was tucked away inside him, sometimes closer to the surface than others, but always there. And now, watching Dave fall apart – watching him choose this fucking miserable life – was the worst kind of betrayal. Maybe it wasn’t fair to blame Dave entirely for what was obviously a horrible addiction, but none of this was bloody fair, to any of them. And Martin was so sick of feeling angry and hurt.

“Just give me five, ten minutes, and I’ll go back in and get it right,” Dave said. He stared at his feet and pushed back his hair.

Martin balled his hands into fists, and then uncurled his fingers and took a deep breath. “This isn’t working.”

“I know, Mart. Look, how about we come back tomorrow, get a fresh start, yeah?”

“No,” Martin said, and he looked up and waited for Dave to stop moving, to pause, just for a moment, and look him in the eye. When he didn’t, Martin said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

He ignored Andy’s startled “what?” behind him, and he stood up and folded his arms, and part of him wanted to get right in Dave’s face – scream at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him, plead with him – but mostly he just wanted Dave to go the fuck away, right now.

“It’s not working,” Martin said again, quietly. And it should have been so very hard, it should have felt terrible, but the words came out all on their own. “Go on, Dave. Just go home.”

The shock and betrayal on Dave’s face would’ve been terrible if Martin thought he’d remember it the next day, or even in an hour. He knew they still needed to talk – he knew they’d lay it all out for Dave, give him an ultimatum, even. But for now, Martin just turned to the mixing board and laid his palms on either side of the console, and he waited for Dave to leave. When he was gone, Martin sat, and he put on his headphones. They still had work to do. Surely there was something salvageable.

 

+++

 

Martin left the girls at the breakfast table, whispering behind their hands, heads bowed together over their smoothies. They spoke a language he was sure he’d never understand, and once upon a time he might have tried – might have watched them from a quiet, thoughtful place and tried to translate them, put their language to music. But now he was content to leave them their mysteries, and he was smiling as he walked out onto the back porch with his coffee.

It was a hot, dry day in Santa Barbara, and he could smell the fire and smoke on the Santa Ana winds that carried over the mountains. The winds weren’t much more than a breeze down here on the water, and the scent of the fire – the warm, smoky dust that he could almost taste – and the way it turned the sky orange and brown and yellow, made him feel oddly nostalgic, although he couldn’t have said what for. It also made him itch to write, bits of lyrics and music bouncing around his head, behind his eyes. A decade ago, two decades ago, he would have locked himself in a room to write them all down, afraid that they’d slip away if he didn’t lock them up first. But he trusted himself now – trusted that the words would be there in a while, when he was ready – and he was content to sit on his porch and watch the ocean, and let the vaguest tendrils of music simmer quietly in his head.

“Think we might have to take Viva home with us,” Andy said, as he took a seat next to Martin.

“Yeah, they’re pretty attached,” Martin said. He grinned into his coffee mug as a squeal of laughter burst from the kitchen.

“Or we could always leave Megan with you,” Andy said with a wince.

“Not a chance,” Martin said. “One of them’s more than enough for me.”

Andy sat back in his chair, turning a pack of cigarettes around in his hand. He’d been trying to quit for a few months now, mostly for the kids, who’d been pestering him about it now that they were old enough to appreciate the health risks – or old enough and stubborn enough to turn the tables and start lecturing Dad, instead of the other way around. Martin’s daughters had always been feisty with him, pushing boundaries, questioning him. He could tell that Andy didn’t quite know what to make of this shift in the relationship with his own children, especially Megan.

Finally he stopped turning the pack and shook out a cigarette, shooting Martin a sheepish smile as he stuck it in his mouth.

“I’ll quit for Christmas,” he said, and lit up.

Martin laughed. “Think Megan will take that instead of a car?”

“Actually, she probably would,” Andy said. “I feel terrible. She’s really worried.”

Martin nodded and looked back out at the ocean. “Well, I’m sure she understands that we all have our problems.”

He didn’t actually know if that was true – if she did understand. He didn’t know how much Andy had told his kids about Dave, and about Martin, and about Andy’s own troubled past. Martin had told Viva almost everything, because she’d asked, and he assumed she’d told some of it to Megan, and probably to Ava too. It didn’t bother him, really. He was proud of everything he’d overcome, and proud of Dave too, and Andy. Better that she know him and love him for all his faults than grow up thinking he was anyone other than himself.

Andy tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and looked up at the sky, which was already darker than it had been when they’d come onto the porch.

“Are you all right here? Is the fire going to get closer?”

Martin shook his head. “No, we’ve got the highway for protection – the fire couldn’t jump it and get to our house. It’s the people in the hills who might be in trouble.”

He’d done his research, although only after moving to Santa Barbara – it had been a relief when he’d realized that their home wouldn’t ever be in a fire line. He’d already lived through enough fire seasons that he wasn’t particularly bothered by them now. But if he ever got used to earthquakes, he’d know it was time to move back to England. Back home.

“Andy! Car’s here!” Grainne’s voice carried from the house, and Andy stubbed out his cigarette so fast that Martin had to laugh.

“So Megan’s not the only one on your case, eh?”

Andy laughed and shook his head. “Grainne quit last year and now she thinks she’s got it all figured out. She keeps slipping Nicotine patches on me while I’m sleeping and giving me that dodgy gum that tastes like mint and tar.”

Martin laughed, and he laughed even harder when Grainne herself appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips and one eyebrow arched as Andy quickly stuffed his cigarettes into a trouser pocket.

“Andy.”

“Yes, luv?”

Grainne eyed him, but finally she just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Time to go,” she said, and she walked up to Martin and hugged him from behind, and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for everything. We’ll see you at Christmas?”

Martin nodded, and he stood up to give her a proper hug and a kiss. Grainne disappeared back into the house, and Andy got up too, and slung an arm over Martin’s shoulders.

“I’ll call you in a week, after I’ve heard from Dave and we’ve got the studio worked out.”

“Yeah, all right,” Martin said.

He didn’t know why, but he had a sudden urge to ask Andy to stay on for another few days. Like it might be lonely without him here, which was ludicrous, because Martin had his own family now – they all did.

Still, he couldn’t help pulling Andy into a proper hug, wrapping his arms around a body grown thicker with time, and still so bloody familiar, like his own skin, like the face he saw in the mirror every morning. Andy smelled clean and safe – of cigarettes and mouthwash and Martin’s own soap.

Andy held him tight for a long moment, and then clapped him on the back and pulled away, and held him at arm’s length. When Andy smiled, his eyes lit up and for just a second, Martin saw the young lads they’d all been, a lifetime ago.

“Bye, then,” Andy said, letting go.

Martin just nodded, and he walked them all to the front driveway – the girls crying and kissing goodbye, even as Andy tried to usher them into the car. He waved once before climbing in the backseat, and Martin waved back, and he watched until the car turned the corner and they were gone.

 

 

The end.


End file.
